Green Eyes
by shayayyay
Summary: Harry Styles is a bad kid. Coke head. Pot smoker. Disappointment. Lover of cats and boys with cute smiles. What happens when his world is clashed with Niall Horan's, the son of the priest? Narry.


_ Harry _

Green eyes, green eyes, green eyes. Green eyes that hold a sense of calmness over everyone they come in contact with, because he knows how to look at people, but are always bloodshot. Green eyes that hold eye contact every time someone enters a room, regardless of the atmosphere .Green with a glowing red rim to it, half because he hasn't gotten a full night's sleep in weeks (not because he's doing anything productive, what a joke, but he's partying on every day he can, trying to jam-pack his day with so much shit that he doesn't have time to rest and he's now regretting that decision), and half because he's gotten ahold of yet another joint that made him feel lightheaded after one hit.

He usually prefers coke over weed, feeling the high instantly as the white powder is snorted up into his nose rather than spending a few minutes inhaling, swallowing and exhaling smoke. His asthma makes it hard for him to be a stoner sometimes, but it's the only thing really in reach. Plus, you can't smell coke. With weed, it's easy to weed out who's been smoking it (no pun intended) and really, what was the fun in that? The real entertainment was not knowing who was lifted from the drug, who was trying their hardest to keep their pants on and their mouth shut.

He had stolen the weed from his elderly neighbor who had brain cancer, taking it from their living room as he pretended to drop off some food for them. They were more than happy to let him in their house, because honestly he didn't think they got company, and he didn't leave empty handed. He knew he was supposed to feel bad, but he didn't in the slightest. The art of being able to lie to the point where he believes himself has taken years of practice, years of telling people what they want to hear simply because he wants something from them.

He's knows he's worthless. He knows it's just a matter of time until he turns into a meth head, or even worse, into Johnny.

Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. Oh, Johnny. Why did the twenty year old have to drop out of college? That, in the Styles family, is worse than death itself. Mr. and Mrs. Styles were forced to hold Harry on a much higher standard, demanding nothing but the best from their little genius. Every day, Harry came home with a test with a score higher than the last and Mr. and Mrs. Styles made it clear to Johnny that he could either go along with the boy or follow his own path, and Johnny decided he had enough, and boom, he, ironically, killed himself.

It was young Harry who had found the body hanging from a rope from the ceiling and he immediately ran to his parents, trying his hardest to explain what unforgivable act his one and only brother had committed.

Harry was their cash cow. They thought colleges were going to pay for him, that news reporters would come to the house, that anything would happen to make up for Johnny's unjustifiable act. But they had to have known it wouldn't be long until Harry fucked up, become dead to the family, just like Johnny.

Worry lines forming on his clear forehead (thanks to hours at the dermatologist in 10th grade), he scrunches his nose up and examines his face. He's shit. The man looking back at him is hardly a man, just a boy who tried to grow up too fast.

He tilts his head to the left, seeing a hickey so big that it makes him uncomfortable. He doesn't remember who he got it from or when, but it's making him feel like a trashy prostitute and he doesn't like that at all. It's not that he minds hooking up, he loves it more than the next, but he always likes to keep track of who was unbuckling his pants. He doesn't want any testicular disease or anything.

"Styles, man? You alright?" Someone calls from behind the closed bathroom door and the boy blinks, forcing himself back to reality. He knows the voice, it's Louis Tomlinson. Or is it? He doesn't know. He's fucking high as shit.

He's no longer ten years old at his brother's funeral, but seventeen and at a house party. If he wants to move on, he's going to have to stop thinking about this shit. It's not healthy. Every morning, he woke up, seeing the images of his brother in his head, whether he was thinking about it the night before or not. It was fucking awful.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just gotta take a massive shit." Oh, Harry, you charmer. He flushes the toilet with his foot and makes a spitting noise.

At that, whoever was at the door must've walked away so Harry opens the door, immediately greeted by silence. He takes a step down the hallway, his footstep creaking beneath him. Where is everyone?

He wanders in every room, but no one is anywhere to be found. This starts to worry Harry.

He goes into the living room, where he sees it. His brother hanging from the ceiling. He's overcome by shock and fear and he backs away at once, his body knocking into a china cabinet and its contents fall to the ground.

"Why didn't you save me, Harry?" The corpse breaths, sounding suffocated.

Harry doesn't answer, just backs away into the corner and wraps his arms around himself. _Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop. _Maybe if he thinks those thoughts enough, the vision will go away and he'll go back to the party or even better, home to cuddle with his cat.

"Harry. Harry. Harry." The dangling body continues and Harry keeps his head down, trying to drown it out by putting his hands over his ears.

"Harry. Harry. _Harry_. Harold Edward, wake up or I'm getting your grandfather in here to kick your ass and he'll be damn good at it!"

A nightmare. That's all it was, was a nightmare.

He stirs instantly, putting a pillow over his head. His alarm clock is bleating in the distance like a goat, he wants all the noise to stop. "Alright, alright, I'm up!" He yells, desperate to get his grandfather out of his room and a sense of relief washes over him as he hears descending footsteps. He loves the old man and all, but you can only love someone so much at six in the morning.

He rolls to his back and stares at the ceiling, refusing to get up. He's completely horrified about what he dreamt, but he knows to keep it to himself because if it got out that he's still thinking about it, he'll just end up in more therapy.

"Harry. Get. _Up_!" It's grandma this time. Believe it or not, grandma is more intimidating than grandpa. She never hesitates to whack Harry in the butt with her wooden spoon and if he even thinks of cursing at her, she cusses just as bad.

"I'm up, I'm up!"

That's a lie, he's not moving. Well, have a lie. He's conscious, isn't he?

He pushes himself off his bed and rubs his eyes immediately. His head's killing him and he feels like he's just been hit by a train, he's hung-over, on a Tuesday. He wobbles over to his dresser and pulls out a Nirvana t-shirt and pulls black skinnies over his boxers and stretches, not bothering to see what he looks like.

He goes to the bathroom and brushes his messy brown hair, which he gave up trying to tame it long before.

"Your bus is here!"

Ah, yes, _the bus._ Immediate social suicide. Harry hates that he takes the bus, but if he didn't get his license suspended, the whole fiasco would've been avoided but he did get it suspended and he can't drive until he's twenty one. Hey, shit happens when you get caught at 3 in the morning with just a permit and a dimebag. Luckily for him, the arresting officer only gave him a ticket and sent him on his way because it was the holidays.

He brushes his teeth, his perfectly straight teeth (thanks to four years with braces and embarrassing mouth contraptions) and grabs a notebook, running down the stairs just as he sees the bus begin to drive away. He runs past his grandparents but they ignore him.

By the time he's outside, the bus has left, which means he'll have to ride his bike to school. He groans and walks to the garage, where his purple and black bike is just sitting in, collecting dust. He hasn't ridden it since last year.

Just as he touches the handles, the bike immediately crashes and falls into pieces and he groans inwardly. He hates asking his grandparents for rides. They drive mini coopers, it's embarrassing.

"Need a ride, sunshine?" Grandma pokes her head out.

"..Yeah."


End file.
